


can't reach these wings

by snarkymuch



Series: Broken Wings [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Broken Bones, Canon-Typical Violence, Failing to Save Someone, Flash - Brief Appearance, Gen, Guilt, Gun Violence, Hiding Medical Issues, Hurt Peter Parker, MJ - Brief Appearance, Misunderstandings, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Treats Peter's Injuries, Whump, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22653910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkymuch/pseuds/snarkymuch
Summary: *Probably need to read the others, but I think you might be fine to read as a standalone*On his way home from the tower, Peter comes across a domestic disturbance. He tries to help, but during the struggle, his wings are seen and a shot rings out. Peter isn't hit, but someone else is, and he blames himself for things going wrong. He also hides an injury and Tony helps him.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Broken Wings [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1588876
Comments: 66
Kudos: 492





	can't reach these wings

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I wrote a thing. I think this one came out good. I hope you like it! A huge thanks to for-thine-is on tumblr for all the cheerleading and support, also for the great bird facts.

“Let me go!” a woman cried, making Peter glance up, scanning the area for whoever was in trouble. His eyes locked on movement up ahead. 

A woman was struggling against an attacker twice her size as he tried to pull her toward the side door of a beat-up van. Her wings were flapping, and she screamed, making heads turn, but no one stopped to help. 

The light was quickly fading from the sky, and there were storm clouds on the horizon. Peter had just left the tower to head home. He wasn’t even in his suit and didn't have his web-shooters as he’d left them with Tony to upgrade. It didn’t matter, though. He had to help. He couldn’t let someone get hurt when he could do something.

Shouldering past a few bystanders, Peter’s gaze flicked over the scene. The man had the woman by the arm, but upon closer inspection, he wasn’t trying to get her in the van. No, he was trying to get to the small child hiding beneath her wings, clutching onto her mother in fear.

“Give me my kid!” the guy snarled. “I don't care what the judge says. She's my flesh and blood, and she's coming with me.”

He must have tightened his grip on her arm as her knees began to buckle, and she cried out. It snapped Peter into action. Thankfully, bystanders were beginning to gather and had their phones out, some already talking to the police. 

Peter just needed to get this guy away from them, preferably without anyone getting hurt, though the guy deserved a broken nose for hurting the lady and scaring her daughter.

“Look, dude, you need to let her go,” Peter tried. “I don't want to have to hurt you.”

He knew he didn't look intimidating in his oversized hoodie and jeans that fit a bit too big, but he still tried to add steel to his voice. It didn’t seem to work, though, as it made the man laugh, twisting the woman’s arm before tossing her to the side.

Peter checked quickly to make sure that she was okay, but the man didn't give him much time, pressing into his space. The little girl was crying, sobbing into her mother's wing. Peter wanted to tell her that it would be okay but didn't get the chance. 

“Daryl, no!” the woman yelled just as Peter’s spidey sense flared.

He spun in time to see the barrel of a gun pointed at him, the man's finger was on the trigger, and his aim was steady. There was a sharp edge to his eyes that sent a shiver down Peter’s spine. He put up his hands, trying for a smile, but it came off weak. He wished he'd at least had his web-shooters.

“Hey, no need for that. Why don't we talk about this? Your name's Daryl, right? Good name. Good name.”

The guy’s left eye twitched. In the distance, Peter could hear sirens. 

Movement at his side caught his eye, and he looked to see the little girl pulling free from her mother's arms. 

“Daddy, please. Don't hurt him. I'm sorry. I'll go with you.”

Peter's heart jumped into his throat, and he began shaking his head. “No, no, no. That's not—that's not a good idea. Why don't you go back to your mommy, and it'll all be okay?”

Tears were leaving tracks down the girl’s cheeks, her eyes red and snot running from her nose. She sniffled but reached a shaky hand out to her father. 

Time seemed to slow in Peter’s eyes. He watched in horror as Daryl took the girl’s hand just as her mother dove for the man, tackling him. 

The gun waved in the air, the girl screamed, and Peter's senses were on high alert, feeding him info from all sides. The little girl was yanked to the side, hitting the van with a thud, while her mother wrestled the man. 

Peter's gaze locked on the gun, and when he saw his opportunity, he moved, fighting for control. 

Everything was lost in a heap of wings and limbs, feathers falling in the chaos. The sirens were nearly there. He just needed to get the gun away…

A crack cut through the air, which was followed quickly by another. 

The woman went limp, the little girl cried for her mommy, and the man ran. Peter felt warm blood on his hands. The smell was so thick he could taste it. 

The gun was on the ground in a pool of blood, and Peter's heart hammered in his chest, and there was a rushing sound in his ears. 

He felt sick, paralyzed by sight of the mother dying next to her child. He knew too well what it felt like to be the child watching someone you love fade away. Ben’s death was all too clear in his mind. 

He needed to move, to help, but he couldn't. All he could do was stare at the blood, staining her amber wings. 

“Put your hands up and step away from the vehicle.” 

Peter picked up his head to see that the police and an ambulance had arrived.

He raised his hands, body shaking. Why was he shaky? He felt off, his balance was wrong. He stumbled back from the van. 

“She's hurt. She needs help. You have to help her!”

Whispers from those around him started to reach his ears. It didn't make sense at first.

_Look at his wings._

_Death follows them. Poor woman didn't stand a chance with a raven here._

Peter blinked, turning and looking around himself. He caught sight of his reflection in a store window. His wings were out, and one was drooping severely. His feathers were ruffled up, too. He was hurt. 

Watching himself in the window, he touched the top of his right wing, only to hiss in pain. 

He stumbled, the tip of his wing dragging along the concrete sidewalk. Panic thrummed in his veins, and before he could even make a plan, he was running away from the scene. Once out of sight, he went up the closest wall to a rooftop. Pain radiated down his arm from his shoulder and wing. 

Panting, he listened as the police searched the area. He could hear them on their radios, talking about the raven who’d fled at the shooting. 

"Copy that. I'll check a few more places, but I don't think we're gonna find him."

Just his luck, the night air grew damp, and a trickle of rain began to patter against the rooftops, wetting his wings. Goosebumps spread over his arms, and he wrapped them around his middle. A drop of cold rain dripped down his nose and ran over his lips. His bottom lip quivered, and he sucked a breath through his teeth.

The image of the woman's feathers streaked with blood was burned in his mind, and the little girl's sobs echoed in his ears. Guilt ate at his insides like poison. He should have moved faster, talked less. If he hadn't waited, maybe the mother would be going home with her child tonight instead of going to the morgue.

The whispered words of the bystanders haunted him. They'd seen him for what he was. He was cursed. Maybe they were right. If he hadn't gotten involved, the gun might have never gone off, and everything would be okay. He should have called the police instead of charging in. What was he thinking?

The pain of the injured wing was nothing compared to what he deserved. Because of him, a child lost her mother. It was unforgivable.

His sweatshirt was soggy and cold against him, making him shiver. He knew he should go home, but he felt empty. More water tickled his nose, and he swiped the cuff of his sweatshirt over his face, but it did little to dry it. The rain was falling in big, fat drops, splattering when they landed on his cheeks. 

Blinking away the rain, he tried to draw his wings in and up to conceal them, but moving his right one made every nerve ending light up at once. Bile rose in his throat, and he hacked it up onto the rooftop. It tasted bitter in his mouth. 

More than an hour had passed, and the cold was seeping into his bones. His feathers were fluffed, trying to keep in the warmth.

May would be calling soon to find out where he is. He didn't know how to answer her. They didn't lie to each other, but how could he tell the truth. He couldn't say that because of him, a little girl was scarred for life. She'd grow up with memories of watching her mother gunned down and a raven standing in the blood. He couldn't tell May any of this. He couldn't tell anyone.

Biting back against the pain, Peter flexed his shoulders and lifted with everything he had to bring his drooping wing in. A cry tore from him, but it worked. It was still sitting wrong, he could feel it settled awkwardly against his back, but he was able to conceal them, and that was all that mattered. Swallowing against the hollow feeling that threatened to drown him, he peered over the edge of the building to make sure it was clear before climbing down the alley wall.

The rain dripped from his hair as he fished his keys from his pocket, fumbling them in cold fingers. They shook in his hand as he tried to line up the key to the lock. His teeth chattered. It wasn’t uncommon for Peter to get chilled. Thanks to his spider bite, he couldn’t thermoregulate like most people, at least not well. Add in a wing injury, he would be in trouble if he didn’t warm up soon. It was common knowledge that injured wings meant staying dry and warm to speed healing, something Peter was not doing at the moment.

When he got inside, he quickly took in the darkened apartment and remembered that May was working a double that night. He tossed his bag on the floor by the door and peeled off his sweatshirt. The ache in his wing was constant and nagging. It would need a splint, at least, something Peter wasn’t sure he could do alone, but he didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t call May, and Tony would blow it out of proportion, demanding answers to questions Peter didn’t want to be asked.

He walked to the bathroom and stripped off his shirt, kicking his shoes off by the hamper. The blood that had been splattered on them was gone, washed away by the rain, but Peter remembered it. He squeezed his eyes shut and clung to the sink as he took a few controlled breaths. When he opened them again, he saw his pale reflection in the mirror, his hair wet and curling, water droplets hanging from the ends of a few strands. Letting go of the sink, he straightened and ran a hand through his hair. Icy water dripped onto his shoulders, and he shivered, goosebumps spread across his arms and chest.

With a sigh, he closed his eyes and let his wings out. Releasing his tight control over his wings caused his injured wing to drop suddenly, pulling against whatever was broken. Peter arched his back, squeezing his eyes shut and swearing under his breath. He panted as he waited for the pain to become manageable. His wing needed to be bound, and that wasn’t a do-it-yourself type of job. He didn’t even know if they had supplies to do it.

Checking the cupboards, he found some wraps, a few different sizes. He settled on a self-adhesive sports wrap. If he could just get it around his wing to support the weight, maybe that would be enough. Struggling with the bandage, Peter got it started and reached around himself, trying to hold it in place and unroll it. It slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor. He picked it up and tried a few more times, but eventually accepted that he wasn’t going to be able to wrap it. He considered calling May again but pushed the idea from his mind. He deserved this for what he’d done.

Peter put the wraps away and changed into something for bed, leaving his shirt off and letting his wing rest against his back. The weight of it pulled the muscles and aggravated the injury. The constant ache didn’t let him sleep. Wanting some relief, he grabbed his pillow and wedged it under his wing to support it. The relief was nearly palpable. He sighed into his sheets. Hopefully, his healing would take care of it, and he’d be better in the morning.

After a night of fitful sleep, Peter woke to pain. At first, he didn’t know what was wrong, then he remembered the blood and the little girl's screams. He remembered the looks and the judgment. His stomach churned with guilt.

Pushing himself out of bed, he immediately felt the stiffness in his joints, especially his right wing. The whole thing would barely move, and it took all his strength to draw it in and hold it. And that wasn’t his only problem. He felt chilled to the bone, and his feathers were fluffed up still, trying to keep in the warmth. 

He checked the time and realized he didn’t have long to get ready for school. It was Friday, and after school, he was due to go to the tower and work with Tony on his suit. He didn’t know if he could make it through the day, let alone pretend everything was fine in front of his mentor.

Gritting his teeth, he drew his wings in and tried to conceal them. His injured wing didn’t cooperate the first few tries, but eventually, he got it. Moving as fast as his achy body would allow, he grabbed some clothes and took a shower, letting the hot water beat against his skin until it was red.

Once he was showered and dressed, he stopped in the kitchen to find a note from May on the table telling him to remember to eat and to have a good day. He wasn’t feeling hungry, though. His stomach felt off, along with everything else. He felt off-balance. His weight wasn’t balanced with one wing injured. He hoped no one would notice.

After scratching a quick note to May, he stopped and grabbed his bag that was still damp and headed to school.

Peter managed most of the day without a problem, but his back ached more than usual, and the constant, nagging pain in his wing had become his new least favorite companion, continually reminding him of what had happened and the life that was lost too soon.

It was the last period of the day when Peter was struggling to class. It was AP US History, and thankfully the teacher never paid too much attention to whether his students were sleeping or not. Peter hoped he could go unnoticed for most of it. The pain was wearing him down. He stumbled into the room, bouncing his shoulder off the door, making him hiss and wince.

“What’s the matter, Penis, forget how to walk?” Flashed jeered from where he sat on his desk.

MJ was quick to shut him down, snapping back at him. “Your wit knows no bounds, Flash.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, as Peter made his way into the room.

He dropped into his seat, still rubbing his shoulder.

MJ rolled her eyes. “It means that your brain’s so minute that if a hungry cannibal cracked your head open, there wouldn’t be enough to cover a small water biscuit.”

A few kids giggled, and Flash flipped her off, slipping from his desk into his seat.

Peter raised a brow, looking at her. “Where’s that from?”

“Blackadder.”

Peter nodded and turned his attention to the class, trying to push the pain to the back of his mind. He hadn’t stopped to stretch his wings once because he’d been afraid that he wouldn’t be able to pull them back in. It was bad enough that people saw him the other night. Those were strangers, though. People he knew would be different.

When the bell rang, he gathered his things, moving slowly since his body felt stiff. After stopping at his locker to drop off some books, he said bye to Ned and made his way out the main doors to find Happy, who was waiting beside the car, looking impatient.

The man gestured with his hand to hurry up and tapped his wrist. Peter tightened his grip on the strap of his bag and hurried his step. Every muscle in his body felt tense and locked up, especially his neck and shoulders, and he was still too cold. In a perfect world, he would have gotten his wing wrapped and spent some time under a few blankets. Things weren’t perfect, though, so he’d just have to make do.

As he approached the car, Happy pulled the door open, then moved to block it again.

“You okay? You look like shit.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “What? Huh? Yeah, yeah. I’m great. Maybe a little tired. No big deal.”

Happy’s face didn’t give anything away, but after a moment, he nodded and moved, so Peter could get in.

“The traffic’s bad, so get comfy. It’s gonna be a long one.”

By the time they made it to the tower, Peter was clenching his fists to manage the pain. His skin was cold and clammy, and he knew he was pale. It wasn’t a look that was going to convince Tony that he was fine. A shiver wracked his body, and it made his shoulders jerk. His lips thinned into a tight line as he climbed out of the backseat.

He could feel Happy watching him as he made his way into the elevator in the garage. Finally alone, Friday greeted him and took him to the lab. His jaw was clenched as he fought the discomfort, and he leaned heavily on the wall. Fingers cold, he drew his hands into his sleeves.

The doors opened to the floor where Tony had his private labs, and Peter pushed off the wall, wobbling a bit before getting his footing. He looped his thumb under the strap on his bag and tried to look normal, making his way into the workspace, following the loud music.

He found Tony hunched over his workbench, the man lifted a hand to wave him in without looking up. The music lowered automatically once he was inside that section of the lab. He dropped his bag on one of the tables and grabbed a stool, dragging it over. It was routine that Peter worked on his homework first, before anything Spider-Man related. Tony and May had made it a rule early on.

Unzipping his bag, he pulled out his chemistry book and got to work. He shifted on his stool, rolling his shoulders, but kept his wings hidden. Every once in a while, Tony would look over at him, making Peter shift in his seat. He didn’t say anything, though, so Peter took that as a win.

A shiver passed through him, and he clenched his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering. He was feeling weak and tired, and the pain just wouldn’t stop. It thrummed with the beat of his heart. It was making him sick. He was nearing his breaking point, but there was nothing that he could do. This was his punishment. What right did he have to complain about a hurt wing when someone had died because of him? A little girl lost her mom.

Another shiver hit him hard, and he winced, clenching his fist around the pencil in his hand, snapping it. He was breathing heavily and trying to hold it together. He didn’t even realize his eyes were squeezed shut until Tony cleared his throat, startling him.

“Okay, Happy said you looked off today, and I was willing to go with it being some teen angst, maybe you pushed it too hard with some deadlines, but this is something more. Don’t think I haven’t been watching you,” Tony said. “Now, no bullshit, what’s going on?”

Peter froze, shoulders drawn tight. “What? Nothing, I swear.”

“It’s adorable how bad you are at lying.”

Peter’s fist was balled so tight his nails were leaving dents in his palm. “It’s nothing.”

“Gotta disagree with you there, kid. While you were all tensed up and barely breathing, I checked up on some things. You haven’t been in your suit, but facial recognition picked you up down on ninth after you left the tower yesterday—right around the same time as a shooting. Reports say a raven left the scene.”

The statement hung in the air, a question, an accusation, a request for more. Peter didn’t rise to the bait. He simply just looked down at the chemistry book on the table, remembering the sound of the gun and the way the girl’s cries were muffled by her mother’s feathers. His eyes closed, and he focused on his breathing. Tony sighed.

“Peter, I looked into the reports. I know you didn’t do anything.”

Peter’s breath hitched. “She died. She’s dead because of me—because people who get too close—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

“It’s the truth, though. She’s dead.”

Tony shook his head. “Peter, she’s not dead. She survived, and her ex was thrown in jail. Everyone is okay.”

Peter’s head snapped up. He wanted it to be true. He needed it to be. “She’s not—she didn’t die? But there was so much blood.”

“They got to her in time. Were you blaming yourself this whole time?”

Peter shrugged a shoulder, making pain shoot up his neck, combined with the intense pain of his wing, he could barely breathe. He panted as he waited for the pain to ease. Another shiver made his shoulders shake, increasing the burn of his muscles.

“Shit, were you hurt?”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Peter, I need you to level with me here. Were you hurt?”

Peter licked his lips. “It’s just my wings. One got pulled funny when I was trying to get the gun.”

“Gun? Right. I’m not touching that right now. Right now, you need to let me see the damage.” A warm, calloused hand pressed against his forehead and then brushed his hair away from his eyes, making Peter groan. “I need to see. Come on, kiddo.”

Peter shook his head. “You’ll make a big deal out of it.”

“Peter, wing injuries are serious. I hate to break it to you, but it is a big deal.”

Feeling chilled, Peter wrapped his arms around himself. “I’ll be fine. Just needs to heal a little.”

“Friday, crank the heat, here and in the penthouse.” Tony’s hand brushed his forehead again. “You’re freezing. You know how dangerous it is to leave a wing treated?”

“It rained last night,” Peter explained.

Tony was quiet for a moment before he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t tell me you were out in that.”

“I wasn’t out in it?”

Dropping his hand, Tony sighed. “Wings, kid. We can go back and forth all night, but this is only ending one of two ways. Either you show me your wings, or I call May, and you show both of us. I’m like a dog with a bone. I’m not letting this go. Sorry, not sorry.”

Peter frowned but gave a tiny nod, pushing up from the stool. He stumbled, but Tony steadied him by the elbow.

“Easy, a hurt wing can throw off your balance.”

Once Peter was standing, he braced himself for the pain and let his wings fall into place. His right one strained under the movement and sent a bolt of pain through Peter’s shoulder and back into his chest. He had to adjust his stance to compensate for the drooping wing.

He heard Tony suck in a breath behind him. “Okay, I’m not going to touch it just yet, just gonna get a scan. Friday, do your thing, girl.”

“Of course, boss,” the AI replied. “There’s a partially healed fracture near the wrist of his right wing and some soft tissue damage near the elbow of the same, most likely from hyperextension. I suggest a splint and immobilization for the next two days until pain and swelling subside.”

“Thanks, girl,” Tony said from behind him. “I don’t have the supplies down here to treat your wing, though it’s pretty straightforward. Why don’t we head up to the penthouse, so we’ll both be more comfortable?”

The strain on his wing was agony. Keeping it concealed all day plus the injury was just too much. He could only give a tight nod to Tony in reply.

Tony shut down the lab and then stopped beside Peter. “Are you okay to walk like that? Your face is very … You look like you’re in pain.”

“Yeah, I’ll be okay. It’s not too bad.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “I think I can say with authority how bad a wing injury can feel. It’s okay not to be okay.”

“I guess it hurts, but there’s not much I can do, right?”

Tony’s brows pinched, and his head tipped side to side in thought. He looked around his room quickly, eyes going wide when he caught sight of something by the old, grungy couch. He dashed over to it and pulled something from between the cushions. Peter’s brow furrowed as he tried to figure out what it was. It looked like a black elastic belt with snaps and Velcro on it.

Tony twirled it as he came back to Peter’s side. “I totally forgot. Rhodey busted a wing not that long ago. This was his support belt.” He stretched it between his hands. “Not really the same injury, but it’ll help keep your wing stable until we can get you fitted in something suited for a wrist fracture. This will at least take some of the weight, too.”

Peter eyed the strap suspiciously, but the nagging pain was reason enough to be willing to try it, and it wasn’t like Tony would do something to hurt him.

“Yeah, okay, we can try it.”

Tony smiled. “Good, don’t move. Just let me do the work. It might ache a little, but tell me if you feel sharp pain.”

“Okay, yeah, I can do that.”

Tony came around behind him, and Peter tensed, expecting pain.

“Kid, that’s only gonna make this worse. You need to relax a little, or you’ll never get the knots out of your muscles.”

Peter sucked a shaky breath and tried to relax his shoulders, but it made his wing pull painfully. “I can’t. It hurts more if I do.”

“Alright, then just hang in there for a minute and breathe. This should help. I’m gonna start by touching the top of your wing.”

Peter didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Tony told him to breathe, and he exhaled in a whoosh. He felt Tony’s hands on his wing and then gently sliding down the long bone to his elbow.

“Okay, I’m gonna slip the strap around your wing.”

There were a few twinges of pain, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

“I can tell you were out in the rain. Did you even try to dry them after? You’re all puffed up.”

“It hurt too much, and I guess I wasn’t thinking about myself.”

He’d been thinking of the woman he thought had died. A heavy silence fell between them, and Peter felt Tony moving the strap. “Sorry, Pete. It must have been tough. I wish you’d called.”

Peter hung his head but didn’t respond.

“Okay, I’m going to lift your wing and tighten the belt, then you should feel a little better. I know it’s hard, but don’t tense up. Ready?”

“As ready as I can be.”

Tony took that as his cue, and he lifted Peter’s wing. Peter heard the Velcro open and then close, and then Tony slowly let his wing back down. The strap held everything in place, and the constant ache eased. He adjusted his stance as his wing no longer drooped. He felt more balanced, too.

“Any better?” Tony asked.

“Loads, thanks.”

“Good, let’s get upstairs, and I can find a splint and sling for your kind of break, and it’ll feel even better.”

Peter followed Tony upstairs, no longer listing so badly to the right when he walked. It still hurt, but it was ten times better. He felt stupid for suffering all day when relief was so easy to come by. But the most significant relief wasn’t the pain easing, it was finding out that the woman had survived. His wings hadn’t meant death. Maybe he wasn’t cursed. 

When they got to the penthouse, Peter saw an extravagant looking preening chair set up in the living room, and he wondered when Tony had gotten it. Tony saw him eyeing it and waved a hand in its direction.

“Go try it out. I bought it for you. It’s got built-in warmers which I want you to turn on. You’re lucky you didn’t catch your death being out there in the rain, hurt like that.”

Peter laughed. “You sound like May.”

“I take that as a compliment. She’s a smart woman. Now go sit while I get the kit.”

Peter tried out the chair. It wasn’t like his and May’s. This was as soft as a cloud. Peter found the bottom for the heat and turned it on, stretching, so his wings were draped over his back comfortably. This chair was more versatile than the one they had at home. It let you sit in many different arrangements. The pain in his wing had turned to a dull throb, and he was starting to drift off by the time Tony came back.

He heard a thud and peeked through his lashes to see Tony unzipping a large black and red canvas bag. It said Wing Kit on the side. He recognized it from medbay, and he’d seen some like it in movies. They were what field medics carried to treat wing injuries in the field. He wondered when Tony had learned to treat wings so well.

“I think you’re probably a size thirty, not far off from Rhoday,” he mumbled to himself. “Friday, give me the measurements for Peter’s wings.”

Friday replied with a list of numbers that didn’t mean much to Peter but seemed to tell Tony what he needed to know. The man dug around in his bag and pulled out a few things, setting them on the coffee table.

“Warm enough?”

“Hmm? Warm? Yeah, I’m good. It’s nice.”

“Good,” Tony said, sitting down on a small stool behind him. It matched the chair. “This might hurt, but I need to take Rhodey’s strap off and put on a splint and wrap that fits you.”

Peter clenched his jaw before Tony even started, anticipating the pain. It didn’t come, though, not really. He felt a few sharp pains when the strap was released, making his feathers ruffle, but it wasn’t too bad. Tony worked quickly, and soon, Peter’s felt something like rigid foam being braced against the wrist joint of his wing. Instinctively, his wing twitched, trying to move away, but Tony eased it down.

“Almost done, kiddo.”

Tony folded Peter’s wing close to his body and then strapped it in place.

“And we’re done. Good as new, or will be soon. It would be best if you kept it out for the next day or day. Concealing a broken wing is stressful.”

“But I can’t do that!” Peter turned in the chair. He wanted to argue the point, but a yawn won the battle of wills and pried his jaw open. Tony raised a brow.

“How about I call May, and you stay here until Sunday? That should be enough time. The only person who might see your wings is Pepper, but if it really bothers you, maybe we can work around that, too.”

“You’d do that?”

Tony nodded. “That’s why I’m offering.”

“I don’t want to make Ms. Potts stay away.” Peter chewed his lip. “She won’t be scared of me?”

“It’ll be fine. If I believed for a moment that your wings would put her in danger, I wouldn’t offer.”

“That’s—that’s good. I mean, thanks.”

Tony smiled. “Go put on some warm PJs. I’ll get some food. I want you resting for the next two days.”

Peter got up, testing his wing carefully and the way it rested on his back. It was tight but in a good way. It felt secure. The pain was nearly gone. He changed into some warm sweats, and when he came back, Tony had a pile of blankets on the couch.

“Get comfy, kid. It’s movie time.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, did you like??? I hope you did. Now, big thing. If you guys want more of this series, I'm gonna need some prompts and ideas for it. So please send me things!!! I want to write more but I just need inspiration. Thank you!!
> 
> Hit me up in comments or on [tumblr](https://snarky-drabbles.tumblr.com/)


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